Work-in-progress
by Dr.B.Damned
Summary: After an incident on a rooftop, Sherlock realises that John won't be magically fixed when he returns from his 'death', but he'll do everything he can to help.


"The roof!"

Of course, how could I be so STUPID?! The murderer must have gotten a helicopter out after stabbing Mr Evans – he'll have needed a quick escape after stealing all that money.

I'm halfway up the stairs before I even realise that I'd started moving and I can hear the trusty footfall of John and then the rest of Scotland Yard following up behind. I reach the heavy metal door at the top and give it a harsh shove for it to swing open. Nothing immediately obvious awaits me- _oh, no, wait, what's that over there? _

I can hear mutters from Donovan and Lestrade behind me as I stride over to the ledge to investigate that random black splotch on the ground. I take out my magnifying glass – _Oil. Oil? Now why would there be... _and suddenly Lestrade's voice overpowers any deductions I could be making:

"John? What is it, what's wrong?"

I try to block it out – _oil. There MUST be a reason, maybe he uses a-_

"JOHN. Shit, John, are you all right?"

_Okay, this is just plain IRRITATING now, what could possibly be so important as to interru-_

It's not until I spin round to face them that I understand what could possibly that important.

John is pale. And not just _jesus-christ-it's-bloody-freezing-out-here-and-it's-raining-and-I-hate- B__ritish-weather _pale_, _no, it's just-seen-a-bloody-ghost-pale. Sheet white, actually. And he's shaking terribly; almost vibrating, really, and it would be quite fascinating if it weren't so terrifying. He seems to have lost the ability to hold himself up, as Lestrade has his hands hooked under John's armpits to keep him upright. But he's definitely still conscious, and staring directly at Sherlock with such an intensity that it was even unnerving Mr Deductive-Stare himself.

"God, no."

The words are barely whispered from the doctor's mouth, but it's enough to make Sherlock's stomach drop.

"Please, Sherlock, no."

Oh, please, don't let this be happening. _He thinks I'm away to jump again._

"Listen, John, it's all fine. Look, I'm still here, and I'm definitely not going to jump, okay?"

But John's just shaking his head and muttering a little incoherently. His eyes are almost comically wide, but nothing about this situation is even remotely funny.

"Really, John, nothing is going to happen, alright? I'm still here; I'm perfectly safe."

And to prove his point Sherlock takes a step forward so that John can see for himself... and slips... and falls backwards, before he lands rather like a sack of spuds on the ground. But he still manages to catch the faint intake of breath from John before the poor blogger's eyes roll to the back of his head and he loses consciousness, leaving Lestrade (who thankfully hadn't let him go) to lower him gently down.

Sherlock waits for the sniggers from the Yarders (_Captain_ John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, had just fainted after all). But nobody laughs. In fact, Donovan looks as though she's actually away to start crying. Hell, even Anderson looks upset; his eyes downcast, nibbling at his bottom lip nervously.

They should be yelling at him: "reckless Sherlock", "cold Sherlock", "for-someone-so-smart-you-really-are-an-idiot-Sherlock", but they aren't. He realises it's not because all that isn't true (because it certainly is), but because they don't want to say those things. They don't want to be mean and say the words that, though correct, will hurt him. Because Sherlock is here, he's back, he's god damn _alive_ and there's no point in sneering and calling him names when for a while they'd believed they'd never even see him again. And so they just stay quiet, because although he's a prat at least he's a fucking _live _prat. And it was just at that moment that Sherlock realises, though none of them would ever admit it, he really means something to them. They really had been affected by his "death". Even with all the bitter words and cutting remarks, he's managed to worm his way into at least some deep, dark corner of their hearts without even really wanting to.

And, as his eyes flicker past Lestrade's pinched face, maybe Sherlock would never forget that fact; that he was loved, that people would miss him when he died – _had_ missed him when he died. Even if it was probably the most selfish thing he'd ever thought, he realises as he gazes down at the broken, unconscious man before him: the only man he hadn't needed to die to be able to tell appreciated him, needed him... loved him.

And Sherlock can only watch from the sidelines, too afraid to step any closer in fear of corrupting – _Anderson –_takes off his coat, as the rain continues to drizzle, to offer to Lestrade who slips it under John's head, what he'd missed when he'd been gone. What must have happened, what must John have been like, how _broken_ must he have been, for them to be looking after him? Had this happened before? How many times had Anderson's coat gotten soggy because it had been so gently placed under John's head? How many times had Donovan stooped over his body slightly to shelter it from the brunt of the icy wind and rain? How many times had Lestrade remained vigilant by his side, knees getting grubby from the damp, muddy roof, holding his hand until John regained consciousness?

These questions and thoughts and mental images keep swirling around in his mind. His mind, usually concentrating on dozens of ideas at any one time, had only one thought – that it's _all his fault. _

And Sherlock has only ever cried twice in his life. Well, only ever cried twice and meant it. The first time was when he knew he was away to break John's heart before he took the fall, when he understood that John was going to suffer _but it's so much better than him being dead_. The second time was right now, as he actually _watches_ John suffer; as he swears to himself that he'll help John put his heart back together again.

And as John starts to come around again, and those beautiful, innocent, vibrant, ever-changing, quick, sharp, deep, kind and _please God _forgiving eyes flutter open to search for Sherlock, widening slightly at the sight of him in tears, he knows that the first step to mending John would be to show him that Sherlock loves him back just as much.

Maybe now not his only friend, but without doubt his best.


End file.
